The Amorous Nightingale

trade.'

    'True. They lend quality and experience to the company.'

    'What of Martin Eldridge?'

    'A more slender talent,' said Hartwell dismissively. 'He relies too much on his good looks and not enough on his skill as an actor. Eldridge is able but no more than that.'

    'Have you ever met him?'

    'Of course. Most of them have supped with me at my expense. Actors are hungry people, Mr Redmayne, and they rarely earn enough to be able to turn down a free meal. Actresses, too, of course,' he added with a sigh, 'though Harriet has never accepted my invitation, alas. She is always spirited away from the theatre by someone else.'

    'His Majesty?'

    'When the mood takes him.'

    'Who else?'

    'Don't ask me to dwell on her other admirers, Mr Redmayne,' said Hartwell peevishly. 'I'm the only one who loves her properly and wants to take her away from that corrupt, dangerous, silly, shallow world.' He slapped the table. 'I do so hate it when I see them pounding on the door of her dressing room and demanding her favours.'

    'Who?'

    'The whole merry gang. Heartless rakes, one and all.'

    'Lord Rochester, you mean? Sir Charles Sedley?'

    'And the rest of them - Buckhurst, Armadale, Ogle. Yes, if ever a man was well named, it is Sir Thomas Ogle, for that's what he does. Well, he'll not ogle Harriet any longer. I'll rescue her forever from him and his drunken cronies. She's too good for any of them except me.'

    Christopher encouraged him to talk about his endless visits to the theatre and pertinent information tumbled out time and again, much of it supplementing what his listener had already heard from his brother or from Killigrew, but some of it quite original. As Hartwell burbled on, one of the names he referred to kept coming back into his host's mind.

    'You mentioned Armadale,' he noted.

    'That's right. Sir Godfrey Armadale.'

    Christopher was puzzled. He did not recognise the name and yet it sounded vaguely familiar. He had a strong feeling that he had heard it before and that it might be important to remember where.

    Moving with his usual measured tread, Jonathan Bale nevertheless went far in a relatively short time. Enquiries among court officials soon gave him the address he needed. He presented himself at the building in Threadneedle Street and asked to speak to Obadiah Shann. Jonathan was allowed through into the lawyer's office. Niceties were brief. Shann barely looked up from the document he was perusing.

    'What can I do for you, Constable Bale?'

    'I wanted some advice about a client of yours,' said Jonathan.

    'Then you seek it in vain. I never release confidential information about the people I represent.'

    'I merely seek an address.'

    'Of whom?'

    'Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

    'Why?'

    'It's a private matter, sir.'

    'Do you know Mr Gow?'

    'No, Mr Shann, but I'm anxious to make his acquaintance.'

    'How did you find out that I was his lawyer?'

    'You were seen dining with him at Locket's ordinary.'

    'Ah,' said the lawyer, taking offence. 'We're being spied on, are we?'

    'Not at all, sir.'

    Obadiah Shann eyed him with a blend of caution and dislike. Gaunt, grey-haired and wearing a pair of spectacles, he was a tall man whose back had been arched by many years of bending over a desk. Jonathan noticed the blue veins standing out on the backs of his hands and caught the distinctive whiff of tobacco in the room.

    'I'm sorry that I can't help you, Constable,' said the lawyer.

    'Then you may be compelled to, sir.'

    Controlled anger. 'You dare threaten me with compulsion?'

    'No, Mr Shann.'

    'I think it best if you leave, sir.'

    'Not until I know Mr Gow's whereabouts.'

    'I have a right to protect my client's interests. Tell me what this is all about and I may be able to help you. Otherwise, depart in peace and let me get on with my work.'

    'I need that address,' said Jonathan doggedly.

    'For what purpose?'

    'A most serious one.'

    'You have a warrant for his arrest?'

    'No,' admitted the other.

    'You're here on legal business of some kind?'

    'Please tell me where he is.'

    'I'm not sure that I should, Mr Bale.' 'You're withholding crucial information, Mr Shann.'

    'I don't answer to a mere constable,' said the lawyer, removing his spectacles to glare at his visitor. 'Who do you think you are, coming in here like this and issuing demands? Goodbye to you, sir! It seems to me that you've overstayed your welcome.'

    Jonathan moved to the door. 'I have, sir,' he conceded freely. 'I may be a mere constable but I speak for a higher authority. Far higher than even an exalted lawyer like yourself. I can see that I'll have to get a warrant to force you to help me.' He gave a warning smile. 'Don't be surprised if it bears the name of the Attorney- General.'

    'One moment,' said Shann, caught between alarm and disbelief. 'We're being too hasty here. I've no wish to be obstructive, I simply reserve the right to protect a client's confidentiality. Why are you so desperate to find Bartholomew Gow that you wave the Attorney-General at me? Surely you can give me some hint of what is in the wind.'

    'A matter of some gravity.'

    'Involving what?'

    'Murder,' said Jonathan flatly.

    'Murder?' echoed the other, jaw dropping.

    'Among other things.'

    'But Mr Gow is the most law-abiding man you could meet.'

    'Then he has nothing to fear from me, sir, does he?'

    Obadiah Shann hovered between surprise and suspicion. He wondered if Jonathan really did have the power of a senior law officer behind him. His visitor tried to nudge him along.

    'Does he, for instance, live in Greer Lane?' he said.

    'Where?'

    'Greer Lane. It runs between Tavistock Street and the Strand.'

    'No, Constable. Bartholomew Gow doesn't live anywhere near there and, to my certain knowledge, he never has.'

    'Then where does he live?'

    Jonathan eschewed politeness. The lawyer was needlessly delaying him. Searching for the killer of Mary Hibbert, the constable was in no mood for the prevarications of Obadiah Shann. His eyes glinted.

    'Do I have to come back with a warrant, sir?' he said.